


it's rotten work

by fieldsparrow



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 10:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19990789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieldsparrow/pseuds/fieldsparrow
Summary: House gets a pet. Wilson's blood pressure spikes. No one really knows what's going on.





	1. Here, Piggy

"Once!" Wilson petulantly stalked into the kitchen, still in his pyjamas (the ones with little flamingos on them), "Just _once_ , I'd like to wake up to a silent apartment on my day off."

The piglet House had had cornered saw an opening when the man turned around in response to Wilson's sudden presence, so it bolted off to the side. House cursed under his breath and gave chase. "Not now, Wilson, I'm chasing a piglet."

"Yes, by all means, don't stop on my account," Wilson intoned theatrically. 

When the piglet managed to escape once again, this time between his legs, House gave up, with an exasperated sigh that rivalled those of 18th-century dames battling their headstrong daughters over matters of love. He made for the couch and plopped down, throwing his cane across it. He craned his neck to look at Wilson, who was standing in the kitchen with arms spread in question. House went back to staring ahead, massaging his bad leg. "You know the organic food trend going on right now? I'm growing my own bacon." 

"House."

He sighed. "Nolan said I should give pet keeping a try."

"Your therapist?" Wilson circumvented the couch to stand in front of him. "He's not due to be introduced for another season and a half. You thought the epitome of a pet is a _piglet_?"

"Well, I wasn't about to get a _cat—"_

"Of course! That would be too boring!"

" _No_ , I'm _allergic_."

Wilson paused, mulling that over. "No."

House flinched. He was in disbelief. "I'm in disbelief! What do you mean, 'no'?"

"You're not allergic to cats."

Wilson's self-assured tone gave him pause. He squinted. "I thought I had the monopoly on illicitly reading friends' medical files."

"I didn't read your file."

"I'm not impressed, Wilson." He sniffled. "We said we'd never _lie_ —"

"Psychic cat patient. You wouldn't stop screwing with Kutner."

"I wasn't _screwing_ with him. I was imparting valuable wisdom."

"Ah, yes. Which is that, if he doesn't wholly align himself with your beliefs about the world, he will have to endure your screwing with him. Now, stop deflecting and tell me what all this is really about."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"House."

House cursed.

"Stop cursing, this fic is for general audiences."

"Fine." He stretched to reach his leather jacket, thrown over the armchair next to the couch. He rummaged in its pockets, finally procuring a piece of paper — laminated — and handing it to Wilson.

Wilson read it, turned it over, read it again. "House, this just says 'diversion'."

House grabbed his cane and jacket and hightailed it to the entrance door.


	2. Not My Problem

"And this is my problem — how?" Cuddy looked up from where she was pedantically jogging a stack of administrative papers, shaking stray hairs out of her face as she did so.

Wilson gaped and stammered. "You're not at all interested in why House might be keeping a _swine_ in the apartment?"

"Doooooes it have anything to do with the hospital?"

"Buh—well, no..."

"Then it is not my problem."

From his expression, Wilson seemed to have brushed against an epiphany. He held on to it like a lifeline. "It _could_ be your problem. This could mean anything! He—He could be off-kilter."

"He's already off-kilter. His out-of-the-box thinking and its contributions to the hospital are the only reason I tolerate this—" She gestured to nothing in particular, "—crap."

"I don't mean off-kilter, eccentric. I mean _off-kilter_."

Cuddy studied him.

Wilson sighed. "And keeping a piglet is way above my pay grade."

"Oh, no, you don't." She stood up from her desk and went to the door to her office, holding it open for Wilson. "Dealing with House in a professional context is already way, way above _my_ pay grade. This is just..." She coughed a bitter laugh.

Wilson dutifully let himself be ushered out, but not without one last, unduly pathetic plea. "Don't make me beg, Lisa."

"Deal with your own boyfriend. And if he doesn't make good on the clinic hours he owes me by the end of the week, only then can you expect me to see him."

Wilson barely managed to open his mouth before Cuddy shut the door in his face.


	3. Business As Usual

"Honey, I'm hooome!" House strutted into the meeting room in usual fashion — which is to say, insufferably. 

All the fellows were already there. Notably, Foreman was in Foreman Position #2 (of possible 3), meaning his hands were clasped. Very much as you'd expect, his asinine comment was the first: "Wilson says you got a pig?"

House's foreboding zest for life marginally, but tangibly, mellowed. "Well, that's no fun. Now I can't surprise you."

Taub raised his eyebrows, ever interested in all the wrong things, and for all the wrong reasons. "So you _did_ get a pig?"

Thirteen was already exhausted, God bless her soul. "Right. Why talk about medicine? It's not like we get paid to do so."

"Killjoy," House groused. It was unclear whether it was aimed at Foreman or Thirteen. I choose to believe it was Taub. 

To demonstrate his inextinguishable elan, House whistled — the kind of whistle that gives you a headache, if you're prone to those. His expression was expectant, but...

A moment passed.

Then two.

...still, a sum total of fuck all* happened.

Everyone was looking a smidge too smug for House's liking. Taub couldn't help himself, because he's an incorrigible dick: "House, I hate to discourage your notoriously optimistic nature, but I don't think—"

"—oh, put a sock in it, Don Juan." House got out his pager. "How's your wife, by the way?" (He was classy like that.)

"She's... fine. We're thinking of getting an instant pot."

"You do realize I don't actually care, right? That was a rhetorical question?"

Wilson burst through the door. He was unmistakably wheezing. "You paged?"

"Wilson, we went over this!"

"Ah, right." He disappeared as abruptly as he showed.

House refocused his attention on Taub — an action of so great reluctance, it was unprecedented in human history. "And, just FYI, getting an instant pot is not an actual couple thing."

Wilson came back, this time holding the piglet. He was just about to put it down when House hissed. Getting with the program, he carried the piglet over and gingerly resettled it in House's arms. He didn't say goodbye on his way out.

"You say when the two of you are considering children. Pets. Because—" He slammed his cane onto the glass table. With his newly freed hand, he reached into his jean pocket and brought out a handful of oats for the piglet to munch on "—they show commitment. An instant pot, on the other hand, tells me your relationship has gotten so miserable, shared chores like cooking seem drawn-out, to the point where you can't tolerate them anymore." 

"House," Thirteen sighed. "As fascinating as we all find your quotidian psychoanalyses based on minute details of our personal lives, there are three cases lying here, either of which could use our combined medical expertise."

House stared at Thirteen.

Thirteen stared at House.

Foreman and Taub stared at the piglet, which was eating out of House's hand with ardor.

They spent a good few minutes like that, in constipated silence, until House finally, as a rare demonstration of diplomacy, put the pig down and dusted off the rest of the oats in front of it. Thirteen handed him his cane, so that he could get up more easily. 

He snatched the file from her hand for perusal.

As per custom, she spieled: "Patient of this or that gender, [random age]. Complains of [mundane symptom], [more hardcore symptom, for flair]. Platelet count is in normal range, yadda yadda, some more authentic medical stuff I appreciate but can't make any sense of nor emulate either way—"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *this is a swear word, and therefore not to be seen by children. reader discretion is advised. because i have said this, my fic can keep its original rating


	4. Pizza and Fries

House swiped a handful of fries from Wilson's plate, because it was French Fry Friday in the hospital cafeteria.

"That is...pretty remarkable." Wilson watched House take a sip from his juice-box. "Almost admirable, even."

House made a face. "It's idiocy."

Wilson nodded. "But admirable. You like monster trucks rallies, you understand."

"Categorically refusing to eat anything but pizza is not comparable to the artistry of monster trucks." House stuffed his face with an uncomfortable amount of fries. "I actually find the notion offensive," he squeaked in mock indignation. 

When he reached for Wilson's plate again, Wilson took it and abruptly stood. House's hand was left hovering in mid-air, as if in question.

Wilson obliged. "I know you're feeding him under the table with your other hand."

"You're not actually pissed on this guy's behalf, are you?"

"House, you—" Wilson huffed. From his plate, he picked out all leftover fries onto a paper napkin, and slid the rest of the food in front of House's piglet. He was barely concealed, sitting between the man's feet.

When Wilson got back up, he could see House was befuddled. "It's a baby pig, not a fully grown horse," he explained. "Easy on the sodium." When House made for his fries again, Wilson snatched them away, punctuating his statement.

House's pager went off. "Pizza pundit," House glanced. He pocketed the small device again. "A luta continua*." He wrested one last french fry from Wilson's grasp before he left to resume his doctoring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A luta continua = Portugese for 'the struggle continues', a political rallying cry first used in the Mozambican fight for independence


	5. You Smile Upon Your Friend To-Day

The fellows burst into House's office one by one, lab coats fluttering heroically, i.e. because of air resistance to their unconscionably speedy walking.

Curiously, House was sitting at his computer. Even more curious was that he had his reading glasses on, which — if you didn't know — made him look like the Oxford Homosexual type, and which he only wore when he could be bothered. I don't have to tell you: that did not happen often.

He glanced at the team before turning his attention back to the computer screen. "Busy."

No one was convinced, and Thirteen communicated as much: "House, I don't think fetish porn constitutes a real, job-related activity."

"Who says it's not job-related?" House turned around the computer screen for the team to see. His browser was open on a Yahoo! Answers page about whether or not pigs can eat French fries.

Kutner hummed. "Funny, I pegged you for a Quora guy."

"Quora doesn't take off in popularity for a good few years from now," Thirteen said as an aside, saving Kutner additional embarrassment. 

House craned his neck to look at the screen. "Whoops, wrong tab." He clicked the next one. It was an academic paper, the title read: 'RENAL EXCRETION OF SODIUM AND SODIUM TOLERANCE IN THE PIG'. 

Taub raised his eyebrows. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Your mom," House elegantly parried.

If Foreman had a bulging forehead vein, it would be bursting by now. As it was, he simply emanated an aura of constipation. "House, it's obviously the wrong tab again, so—"

"Oh!" House glanced between the screen and Foreman. "No, it's the right one."

The team exchanged looks. Taub silently agreed to speak for the collective, even though no one silently asked: "Our bad. We were under the impression we were still treating a human patient." 

Not about to miss an opportunity to bootlick, Kutner interjected: "House is obviously worried about his pet." He turned to the mother hen in question. "I have a friend who's a vet, I can call her up—"

"No, _idiot_ ," House made sure to enunciate. "I'm saying the amount of cheese our patient's been eating because of his monophagy has meant a substantial increase in sodium circulating through his body, which — and stop me if you've heard this one before — sucks major balls for human physiology."

"It explains all the symptoms," Foreman granted.

House bored into him á la _I'm not really hearing this_. 

Luckily, Thirteen got with the program. "We'll leave now."

As the team pitifully shuffled out of the room with tails between their legs — a stark contrast to their cocksure strides from before —, they crossed paths with Wilson, who had the piglet in hand. He had just taken it for its walk and was now about to return it to House. He considered the band of wretches briefly as he marched on.

"Why does your team look like their patient just died," he asked upon entering House's office, settling the piglet on the floor as he did so.

House stared at him seriously.

"Oh my god," Wilson blanched. "The pizza guy?" 

House rolled his eyes. "You're so easy, it's not even funny. The guy's fine. A week of dialysis and he'll be out of here, good as new."

"What about his eating disorder?"

"We're not that kind of hospital." House reached under his desk, procuring two boxes. "Pizza?"

Wilson smiled, gratefully stretching out a hand. His expression suddenly turned severe. "But none for Hogbabe."

House was clearly entertained. "Hogbabe?"

"I got tired of calling him 'the piglet'," Wilson shrugged. "Plus, the author promised they'd give their friend Lizzie a shout-out, and since 'hogbabe' is an inside joke..."

House nodded with solemnity. "Well, in that case: 'You smile upon your friend today, To-day his ills are over.' " At Wilson's questioning look, House explained: "Another inside joke."


End file.
